Poetry

In seventeen-ten, when the century was young, the Swart family crossed the ocean.

Kicking away the leaves by strutting she’s nothing less than Peter Pan.

Dapper and delicate branches bend softly, avoiding the wrath of the city.

As she serves them, she knows that soon, they will be overly warm.

Birds in branches, peacocks preen.

I paint in orange desire, he in glorious gold.